The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  Markal thought about the gardens. “In these times, probably not,” he admitted.

  “I am giving you time to escape,” the woman said. “I am injured, and so is my mount.”

  “Ageel? Is that what you call it? And what’s your name?”

  She glared. “I would suggest you use that time to get yourself far from here. As soon as I’m ready to fly, I will be after you. We won’t have sorcerers in our land.”

  “Very well.” Markal looked up into the tree, where the griffin had worn itself out and was glaring down through the branches with a look every bit as hostile as its rider’s. “Although I have doubts about how soon you’ll be back in the sky.”

  “We’ll be after you—don’t think this slows the hunt. There’s an entire flock out there, ready to tear you limb from limb.”

  “That’s not precisely what I meant. What I’m suggesting is that I might be able to help.”

  She kept up the ferocious glare. “With sorcery?”

  “You keep misusing that word. Sorcery is what the dark wizard practices—you know, the one who is building the highway through the mountains? The one who sent these men to hunt griffins?”

  “I know this necromancer. I know what he’s capable of. What is the difference? You are enemies of each other, of course—anyone can see that. But you both practice sorcery.”

  “Do sorcerers heal injured legs?”

  “I’ve had worse, and won’t be troubled by it for long. We have our own healers. Balms and herbs. Now leave at once or I will start whistling until someone hears me and comes to my aid.”

  He’d heard riders communicating by whistle, and knew how shrieking loud it could be. But she clearly knew that nobody was around to hear or she’d have tried that already.

  “And what about your griffin? One bolt in the wing, one in the breast. Where’s the third one? The belly, wasn’t it? I hope it didn’t hit something vital. A body is a fragile thing, and an iron-tipped crossbow bolt has penetrating power, as these poor fools proved when they shot each other.”

  Her glare softened, and there was worry in her expression as she glanced once more into the oak tree. Her expression was more circumspect as she took him in.

  “You claim healing powers?”

  “I do.”

  “And what do you want in return? Something, no doubt. I won’t let you pass through our lands unimpeded. That will not happen, now or in the future.”

  “Yes, of course I want something. I want down from these mountains.”

  “So you can come back with another company of knights like the ones you led from the stone circle?”

  “I want to leave. Nothing more, nothing less. Fly me to the lowlands and drop me off near my home.”

  “You can’t fly.”

  “Not alone. By the Brothers, no. But if you carry me, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “Ageel will tear you apart.”

  “I’ll manage that, too. I have a way with animals. We all do in my order.”

  She chuckled. “Ageel is no mere animal. He’s a griffin, and the moment you lay a hand on him, you’re going to lose an arm. No, it’s out of the question.”

  “Very well, then I’ll leave. I hope Ageel will be all right. What do you do with griffins when they can no longer fly?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. That apparently doesn’t trouble you.” He turned to go.

  “Wait.” She sounded resigned and rather put upon. As if he hadn’t just saved her life and was now offering to save her griffin, too. “I’ll accept your offer. Can you climb a tree? No? Well, then, fetch your gear. I assume you have a hatchet for cutting firewood?”

  “No, I’m traveling light.” He drew back his cloak to show the small satchel on a strap at his waist. He’d been carrying it since leaving the Blackshields, and it only contained a few essentials. He also had a small knife with a blade no longer than the length of his palm, and he drew it from its sheath. “You can use this if it’s better than your sword.”

  She grunted. “No, not really. Well, then, what can you do while I’m getting Ageel down?”

  “I can lay down wards to make sure we aren’t ambushed. But let me look at your leg first.”

  “First the griffin, then my leg. Go do your sorcery.”

  Without waiting to see how he’d respond, she grabbed for the lowest branch, the one she’d been unable to climb while fighting the soldier. She lifted herself effortlessly, then stretched for the next branch above her, climbing without seeming to put any weight on her leg. It was like watching an acrobat from the sultanates, and he could only imagine her climbing skills had she not been injured.

  The wounded griffin watched from above, and when his mistress drew near, it opened his beak and hissed, even acted like he was going to snap at her arm. Markal was glad he was on the ground rather than dealing with the wounded, frightened animal.

  When he’d finished laying the wards—a few pebbles, sticks, and murmured words—the woman was still in the heights, trying to cut a path for her mount to climb down through the tangle of branches, so he took a quick look around to see if he could spot a rabbit trail, a mountain stream with trout, or a patch of wild berries. There was nothing, and his stomach growled in protest.

  “Sorcerer!” the woman called from the trees. “Where did you go? Stop messing around—we’re coming down.”

  A litter of leaves and branches lay at the base of the tree, and she’d cut a hole around the griffin, which would be enough to get him to lower branches where there was more space to maneuver. Now that Markal had a clearer view, he could see the crossbow bolts sticking out of the animal, bloody and painful looking. One was high on the shoulder, above the wing, another in the belly, and the third penetrated the wing itself just below the bone. All three looked serious enough to be life-threatening. He’d know better when he had a chance to examine it up close, assuming he dared approach the thing.

  The woman descended a branch and pulled on the tether. “Come on, you silly thing. You stay up here and you’re going to die. Sorcerer—” she called.

  “Wizard, not sorcerer. And my name is Markal. What’s yours?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “What is your name?” he pressed.

  “Yuli. Listen, do you see that tree behind you, the birch with the split trunk? Go stand there, will you?”

  “Do you think I’m spooking your griffin, and that’s why he won’t come down?”

  “No, I think if you’re standing in the open like that, you’re not going to last long. Ageel can be a challenging griffin at the best of times, and injured who knows what he’ll do?”

  The griffin lowered himself with a squawk and a flap of injured wings, and the branch it dropped to bent nearly double as it took the animal’s weight. Markal decided it wouldn’t hurt to stay clear, and he positioned himself behind the birch tree in question. Yuli coaxed and prodded, and gradually got the animal down, one branch at a time. It half fluttered, half fell from the lowest branch, and flopped on the ground, its body and wings tucked awkwardly as it gave a miserable look around and shrieked in pain.

  It looked even bigger on the ground, the size of a horse. Its eagle-like head was big enough to swallow him whole, and the talons long enough to envelop his entire head. The back paws could eviscerate him with a single swipe.

  Yuli touched at the crossbow bolts, lingering on the one below the rib cage, and worry clouded her face. She looked toward Markal. “Do you really think you can help?”

  “I hope so. I want to help. But I’ll be honest—I’m terrified to come out from behind here.”

  “You said you had a way with animals.”

  “Yes, but . . . not like this. I have a spell that would soothe him—”

  “Then why don’t you use it?”

  “—but if I cast it, I’ll have no magic left for healing. I already spent a lot of strength making the Veyrians shoot each other and then throwing that debris at the last man’s face. I am sadly quite limited in my abilities.�
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  He expected another insulting comment, but instead Yuli nodded calmly. “That’s good to hear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s good to hear that one’s enemies are not all-powerful.”

  “We don’t have to be enemies.”

  “You have invaded my land. That makes us enemies.”

  “That again? How is this your land? You weren’t here until a few years ago, and suddenly you came swarming from the north country. Somehow that makes it yours?”

  “The ice sheets are advancing, and our lands are overrun with wild beasts and giants—we had no choice. Anyway, nobody was living in the mountains when we came.”

  “That doesn’t mean we don’t need to use them. The mountain roads—”

  “Do you mean that monstrosity your king is building through the high passes, built on the backs of an army of slaves? You flatlanders are like swarms of ants, there are so many of you. Thousands upon thousands. And your sorcery can burn us out of the sky. So yes, I am happy to hear that you have limits.”

  All this time, Yuli had been working. First, to soothe Ageel, who calmed under her touch. Or maybe that was sheer exhaustion on the part of the griffin. Markal didn’t know enough to tell for sure.

  Once she had him calmed, she set about removing the bolts. The one through the wing was relatively easy; Yuli snapped it in two and pulled the two halves out from opposite sides. The one in the shoulder was trickier. She examined the head of the first bolt, running her fingers along the barb-like ends to see how it was constructed, then cut off the back end of the second bolt and shoved it the rest of the way through the shoulder muscle to send it out the other side. It emerged with a gush of blood, and Ageel keened in pain and whipped his head around to take a snap at her. She pushed away his beak, seemingly unconcerned that a single bite could take off her arm.

  Yuli pressed one hand against the shoulder wound and reached for the last crossbow bolt with the other. Her face bent into worry as she felt around the base of the bolt where it emerged. The entire metal head of the bolt was buried in the animal’s belly, together with an inch of the wooden shaft. An ugly wound, and one that would have killed a man.

  Yuli began hesitantly. “I don’t know what to . . .? Do you think this should be cut out? If it has penetrated the vitals . . .”

  Markal stepped around the forked trunk and advanced a few feet. “Is it safe?”

  “No, it’s not safe. I’ll hold Ageel, but he’s shivering. Not in his right mind. You said you have a way with animals. Time to prove it, flatlander.”

  Markal swallowed hard and stepped forward. Yuli released the bleeding shoulder and held the griffin’s head. There was no question the animal, injured and exhausted though it was, could throw her sky high with a single thrash, turn on Markal, and tear him apart. He spoke soothing words, let his mind clear itself, thought about the gardens, about his warm feelings for flowers, trees, bees, and birds. He thought about Wilford, the black bear that lived in the woods at the heart of the gardens, and how he would leave him pieces of honeycomb as thanks for staying out of the blueberries.

  The griffin couldn’t read Markal’s mind, per se, but would feel the soothing thoughts radiating off him, the love of plant and animal, and his way of living in harmony with all living things. It studied him as he approached, and the violent shivering seemed to wane. When Markal reached a hand for the tawny haunch near the belly, the griffin barely twitched. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Interesting,” Yuli said. “You really do have a way.”

  “I’m not Narud, but yes, animals seem to like me. Even the rabbits in my traps, right before I wring their unfortunate necks.”

  “I don’t like killing deer, either, but one must eat to survive.”

  “How about flatlanders?” Markal asked. “Do you like killing us, or do you feel a little sad when we die?”

  Her tone hardened. “Can you remove the arrow or not?”

  He prodded at the wound, a little harder when the griffin remained calm and showed no signs of attacking. A bad injury, but the flesh was cool, and there seemed to be no poison or contagion on the bolt itself. He wrapped one hand around the shaft, held out the other hand, palm down, and closed his eyes. He spoke words in the old tongue.

  “Hunc alienum obiectum est franja dolor.”

  Markal opened his eyes to find the bolt in hand and the wound nearly closed. There was more blood leaking from his own body than from the griffin’s. Ageel let out a low keen that sounded like relief, and Yuli stared, gaping.

  Markal tossed the bolt aside and wiped blood from his hand. “Do you still think it’s sorcery?”

  “That was . . . can you heal the wing and shoulder wounds, too?”

  He was suddenly bone weary. “I can close the shoulder, but I can’t do any real healing until I’ve had a rest. And some food.” He nodded at her leg. “That includes healing your leg and ankle.”

  “The ankle isn’t broken, only badly sprained. And the leg is painful, but it won’t stop me.”

  “Don’t walk on it. Not until I—” He stopped, overcome by a yawn. He was drained. “I can’t do anything. I feel like I’m going to faint. Let me rest a bit, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’m not going to sit around here waiting.” Yuli rose to her feet, tested to see if she could put weight on her bad leg, and winced.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I won’t be gone long. But if I were you, I’d crawl back to that birch tree before you collapse. You’re not the only one who’s going to be hungry. And as for you,” she added, with a sharp look at Ageel. “This wizard just saved your life. Show a little gratitude and don’t eat him before I get back.”

  Chapter Six

  The dark acolyte attacked Nathaliey with water. All the falling rain, all the water pooling in puddles, and even the moisture still in the clouds twisted into a funnel around the man’s hands and blasted toward her. She tried to lift her hands to draw a counterspell, but the column of water struck her chest like a hammer, and she went flying.

  She hit the ground hard, a rock at her back. She squirmed free of the current of water, but it found her again and caught her in the face. It continued to pummel her as it drove her across the ground, where she scrambled for a rock, a clump of grass—anything to grab hold of.

  Water and mud filled her mouth and nose, and she couldn’t breathe. It felt like she was underwater and drowning. And such was the force of the current that it was pushing her toward the edge of the bluff. It was going to knock her off the hill and into the river, where she’d drown.

  A hand grabbed her leg before she went over. A voice shouted. Another hand grabbed her arm. The water had stopped, but two marauders had her and flipped her onto her back. One man held a sword, which he was about to plunge into her chest. The dark acolyte shouted at him to stop, and her attacker obeyed.

  She blinked mud and water from her eyes to find a familiar, hateful face peering down at her. It was Vashti, the enemy Nathaliey and Markal faced a few weeks ago in the battle on the old road. Nathaliey had defeated Vashti, in fact. Would have broken his bones by reversing his own shadow attack back at him, if Markal hadn’t stopped her. A second dark acolyte had been lurking on the edge of the battle, strengthening Bronwyn, Hamid, and the rest of the marauders, and it had taken their combined strength to fight them both off.

  Vashti stared at her from hollow eyes, his thin, almost corpse-like lips curled into a cruel grin. She lifted her right hand, determined to blast the smile from his face, but one of the marauders shoved his sword tip through her hand and pinned it to the mud. She cried out in pain. The second marauder poked at her free hand with his sword tip as if daring her to try again so he could impale her a second time.

  “You!” Vashti said to another marauder who had approached and was watching with dead eyes. “Get your captain.”

  The man pinning her hand with his sword grunted as soon as the marauder had departed on Vashti’s errand.
“Kill her and be done with it.”

  “You are an idiot, and you will keep your mouth shut.”

  “I don’t answer to you, little weasel,” the marauder growled.

  He pushed down with his sword, and Nathaliey bit her tongue and closed her eyes against the pain, but refused to cry out again. She must have something that could get her out of this situation.

  “What in Toth’s name is going on here?” a voice growled. “Oh, so you’ve caught a spy.”

  Nathaliey opened her eyes to see Hamid standing over her. The massive form of Soultrup was strapped over his shoulder, and he wiped at his face with the stump of his left hand to brush away the rainwater that dripped from his limp, greasy hair.

  This was the man who had taken command of the marauders after Bronwyn’s death. Already, in a few short weeks, he had slaughtered hundreds of Eriscobans, sacking villages and murdering men, women, and children, while promising the rest that he would return later to enslave the survivors.

  Hamid peered down at her, eyes narrowing. “I know this one. She’s one of the wizard’s servants. We faced her in the mountains. Then I suppose she’s seen our operation, and probably reported it, too.”

  “She did more than that,” Vashti said. “She sent those men over the edge, made the hillside break apart.”

  The sword tip pressed harder on her palm, and the other marauder kicked her hard in the ribs. “I’ll kill the little rat,” one of them said.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Hamid said. “She has more value than any number of you.”

  “You’re going to set her free?” the other marauder said.

  “One more word from you and I’ll throw you over the edge myself. I want ten riders, plus my own horse. As for you,” Hamid told Vashti. “You’ll accompany us.”

  “Where to?” the dark acolyte asked.

  “We’re taking her to the master.”

  #

  They bound Nathaliey’s hands behind her back, one bleeding from where it had been stabbed, and threw her over the saddle of a horse who seemed only slightly more excited about venturing into the rain than she was.